


we’re only young & naive still (the bittersweet between my teeth)

by possibilist



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Private School AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 19:52:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6128275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/possibilist/pseuds/possibilist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>clarke & lexa go to private school together, & they're something to each other, although they're still kind of trying to figure that part out. part of a longer little series in this universe w eliza (unicyclehippo).</p>
            </blockquote>





	we’re only young & naive still (the bittersweet between my teeth)

**Author's Note:**

> we r gonna write the grossest little fics in this universe

_we lie beneath the stars at night / our hands gripping each other tight / you keep my secrets hope to die / promises swear them to the sky_

—the naked  & famous, ‘young blood’

//

you’re not entirely sure what to do, not at all, and you feel terrible for not recognizing what was going on before now, because you’d seen lexa have a panic attack before, and you’d had to call anya and follow her instructions. you’d talked to lexa afterward, read all of the sources anya sent you afterward on hypersensitivity and how to ground someone, but it’s different when it’s happening.

lexa’s sitting on the floor of the biggest dressing room you could find in barney’s, and in retrospect today was a sale and it’s _barney’s_ , there was no real reason either of you really wanted to go, but it was between madewell and j crew, and lexa had wanted to look at these _ridiculous_ like $700 sneakers. it’s crowded; it’s been crowded all day, kind of loud, and you’d eaten shitty junk food in the slightly dirty food court for lunch, and lexa had gotten quieter as the afternoon had gone on.

sometimes you think you know everything there is to know about another person with her, and you’ve known her for two years at prep school; you know the lilt of her little accent, how intense her parents are, how much she loves her big sister and her little brother, how _smart_ she is, how she really likes playing neko asume and hates the texture of eggs, that she sleeps on her left side and hates haircuts and when grass gets in her field hockey cleats and that she can drink more than her thin frame lets on. she’s gotten taller than you now, just barely, but she’s still growing, and she’s _beautiful_.

and you love her.

‘hey,’ you say, kneeling down but remembering not to touch her. ‘hey, lex, hey. look at me, come on.’

she sucks in a big breath and meets your eyes but doesn’t stop rocking back and forth and her hands are still pressed tightly to her ears, although she must be able to hear you. you’ve known she’s on the spectrum since like, the fourth day you talked to each other, because she’d rattled off the first 92 digits of pi and you didn’t know what to make of that; you’ve studied a lot on your own since then, to learn how her brain is different than yours, what the world might feel like to her: too fast, too loud, too _much_ sometimes.

‘alright,’ you say, ‘that’s good. you’re doing great, lexa.’

she shakes her head and you sit down across from her, smile a little. 

‘yeah you are, dummy.’

she stills a little, and maybe you can do this. 

but _then_ someone next to you fucking deadass _slams_ their dressing room door, and lexa shuts her eyes and before you can do anything about it she _smacks_ the wall, hard, with her left hand. you scoot forward as fast as you can, because you’re pretty sure she’s going to do it again, and you grab her wrist. you know you’re not supposed to touch her, but she could break her hand, and there’s something about your grip—it’s firm, but you try to be soft at the same time—that seems to orient her slightly. 

she her hand drops and she puts the other one on your arm, and her breathing slows a bit, and she looks at you intently.

‘you’re clarke,’ she says.

‘yeah,’ you say. ‘how do we know each other?’

her voice is a little steadier. ‘school. you argued with me on the first day of English 9.’

you smile at the memory. ‘mmhmm.’

you see something click and she leans back. ‘fuck,’ she says. ‘you dragged me into fucking barney’s, didn’t you.’

you laugh and sit back a little, take her hands loosely while she looks around. there are a few bags with some stuff you’d both bought in the corner, lexa’s backpack on the bench—you usually put all of your shit in there instead of carrying a purse whenever she lets you. 

‘you’re the one who wanted $700 sneakers.’

‘jesus _christ_ ,’ lexa says. ‘to be honest i kind of only remember some of today but i do _not_ want those.’

‘sure,’ you say. ‘you’re just using this as an out.’

‘i am _not_ ,’ lexa says.

‘i’m kidding, lex.’

‘oh,’ she says, then leans her head back against the bench with a thump. she takes a few breaths and you can tell she’s probably counting or going over some wildly complicated physics formula in her head or something, and then you hand her her glasses with a smile when she looks back at you. ‘i’m sorry,’ she says.

‘for what?’

‘well we’re on the floor of a dressing room and i’m pretty sure i just had a panic attack. not exactly your idea of a fun afternoon shopping.’

you shrug. ‘i was getting bored anyway. you never fail to liven things up.’

lexa laughs a little—the sound makes your chest clench a little in the nicest way, and it kind of scares you, how happy she makes you, even now—and then shoves your shoulder gently.

‘ow,’ she hisses, though, and then looks at her hand, then you, then the wall. ‘did i hit you?’ she asks, quiet and horrified.

‘nah,’ you say, ‘just the poor, abused wall.’

she lets out a sigh of relief and flexes her hand. 

‘my mom can take a look at it,’ you offer. ‘make sure nothing’s broken.’

she nods. she’s staying with you in the week you have left before school starts up again for fall term; she’d been in tehran for the summer like usual, with her parents and her little brother, and you know she loves being back home, and you know she loves her family, but things are always a little worse—she’s more stressed; her hair is always a little shorter and a lot neater; she’s quieter and doesn’t have quite the same powerful posture that she does during the semester when she gets her own space and her own friends and— _whatever_ you are to each other.

‘okay,’ she agrees, and you nod.

‘cool,’ you say. ‘do you think we can make a break for it, or do you want to stay in here for a bit longer?’

her smile is gentle and grateful and it warms something inside of you—she makes you feel _good_ , like you can be soft for the world. 

‘i think i’ll be okay leaving. i have a headache and my hand hurts and i’m probably going to have to nap,’ she adds, which is more information than you’d been expecting.

‘that’s fine,’ you say. ‘as you know, i’m always a slut for naps.’

she laughs and nods and you help her up by her good hand. somehow you both manage to arrange all of your bags well enough that you can hold hands still, which is kind of second nature at this point. 

lexa sighs once she gets into your mom’s range rover that you’re borrowing for the afternoon, and the leather seats aren’t too hot, and she buckles up and leans her head back.

‘hey clarke?’ she says as you’re pulling out of the parking lot.

‘yeah?’

‘thank you,’ she says, and it’s soft and with a sincerity that scares you sometimes.

‘you’re welcome,’ you say, and lexa smiles at you; when you offer, she takes your hand again.

//

it’s a surprisingly cool day for the end of august in DC, not too humid, and you know your kid, and when she’d come home an hour ago with a very sleepy lexa trailing along, she had looked like she was holding back a lot of things that would make her upset for the sake of someone else. it’s not new, and it’s one of clarke’s best and worst qualities at the same time, the way she can compartmentalize when other people need her. it reminds you so distinctly of your wife, and you think clarke is going to grow into this incredible person like her.

she already is, really, because she’d come downstairs after you’re sure she got lexa situated in bed—her bed, even though there are a few guest rooms. you don’t care; clarke came out to you last year as bi and you’d told her that you understood because women are lovely, and she’d laughed and you’d hugged her into your chest, and nothing in the world, you don’t think, could make you love her any less.

‘lexa’s taking a nap,’ she says, and she looks tired, and she doesn't tell you anything else as she fills a glass of water and goes back up the stairs. you’ve known lexa since clarke started school—she never _shut up_ about her, so you’re sure there was something there, and she’d introduced you during the first family day, and you and abby had shared a knowing smile.

abby gets home not soon after, and you kiss her and listen to her talk about her day, and you’re kind of amazed, still, every time, when your wife comes home and you get to hear about people whose lives she _saved_ ; you’ve told her this a number of times, but she kind of seems like a super hero to you sometimes. she always laughs and rolls her eyes and says, ‘i’m a doctor, there are no super powers about any of that,’ but you still think she’s astounding. 

you update her a little bit on whatever happened with clarke and lexa—you doubt they got in a fight, it didn’t seem like that, but something happened, and you’re not worried; clarke will tell you later—and you make some chicken and abby makes a salad, and you save some for clarke and lexa whenever they're ready. you and abby have some wine outside and she rests her feet in your lap and sometimes you wonder if clarke fell in love with someone like you fell in love with abby, if it really happened to her when she was fourteen. you think that maybe she got that lucky, and you don’t know if you’ll ever think anyone is _truly_ quite good enough for clarke, but, so far, lexa’s come pretty close.

clarke comes outside after about half an hour, snags your wine glass from the table and drains it one go, and you laugh while abby sighs, and then she gives both of you a half hearted smile and says, quieter than she normally would, ‘mom, can you go check on lexa?’

it goes unspoken that clarke needs a little help, and you’re glad she reached out. abby stands and kisses clarke’s forehead softly before they both nod and abby goes inside, and you let clarke sit down before you pour some more wine and bring both glasses with you.

she leans into your side silently in thanks when you hand one to her, and you wait for her to start talking. she’s like her mom in that way—she needs her own pacing, her own space and time to gather her thoughts and say what she’s feeling, because sometimes, you know, she feels a little too much.

eventually, though, clarke sighs. ‘it’s not fair,’ she says quietly.

‘what isn’t fair, kiddo?’

clarke swallows. ‘well, you know that lexa’s on the spectrum, and sometimes just—she gets overwhelmed and she had a panic attack today because things got too loud and too bright, and i love so many things about her brain but sometimes—it’s just not _fair_ , that she should ever have to feel like that.’

you know for sure, in that moment, when clarke’s hands clench into angry fists, that she’s _in love_. it’s big and she’s probably unsure and overwhelmed, but you _know_.

you don’t have anything amazing to say—it isn’t fair, that sometimes people’s brains are a little off kilter in some way, but, ‘did you help her stay safe?’

clarke shrugs. ‘mostly,’ then, ‘she hit a wall before i could stop her, but, yeah. otherwise.’

you know that’s nothing small. ‘i’m proud of you, clarke,’ you say, and she sighs.

‘she’d do the same for me.’

‘i know.’

clarke’s quiet, plays with the fraying friendship bracelet on her wrist—lexa has the same one—takes a sip of wine.

‘she goes to counseling and she’s so smart and good and i just—i want the world to be gentle to her always and sometimes it’s not.’

‘the world should be gentler to a lot of people, huh?’

clarke nods, and then she sniffles a little, and you put your arm around her shoulders and she leans into your side. you feel the wetness of her tears against your t-shirt, and you stroke clarke’s hair softly, like you did when she was little. she doesn’t cry very often anymore, but she had a _temper_ when she was younger, especially with abby, and you know she loves both of your fiercely, but you had always had something very special with your daughter, something very safe.

‘i love her so much,’ clarke whispers, and you think it’s to herself more than you. 

you nod. ‘you love her very well, clarke.’

clarke backs up and wipes her tears and bites her lip and takes a deep, shuttering breath. ‘i don’t know exactly how i love her.’

‘that’s okay,’ you say. ‘you have plenty of time to figure it out. i don’t think lexa’s going anywhere.’

clarke smirks. ‘she is in my bed without pants on,’ she says, and you laugh.

‘ah, the clarke griffin we all know and love is back.’

clarke grins and elbows you in the side. 

‘hey,’ she says, then stands and walks toward your shed. ‘you know what we’ve not done all summer?’

‘what?’

‘well,’ she says, coming out with two mason jars after rummaging around for a minute, ‘we could catch lexa some fireflies.’ 

it’s romantic and lovely and you want to tease her, but she looks so hopeful and so sincere you nod. ‘she’ll probably immediately want to let them go.’

clarke laughs, hands you a jar. she's barefoot and she’s almost taller than abby now, and you know she looks so much like you, the same eyes and chin, and sometimes you still can’t believe you helped _make_ this person, this brave, brilliant kid who’s falling in love. 

‘race you to five,’ you say, catching one deftly as you do.

clarke grunts. ‘not _fair_ ,’ she says, dashing off after one of them.

you watch her catch her first and then beat her fair and square, but you’re laughing the whole time, and clarke’s smile is worth everything in the world to you. it always will be.

//

you’re entirely unsurprised to find lexa in clarke’s bed. she’s in the t-shirt she was wearing earlier and underwear, nothing else, and she looks like she's kind of going in and out of sleep, clutching one of clarke’s pillows against her chest. she’d stayed with you for two weeks last summer, then a week over winter holidays, the spring break this year, and you know that more often than not they share clarke’s big bed. she’s quiet and intense and you know she makes clarke focused and gentle and you also know that she loves your child greatly, however that may be, and for that, you care about her deeply. 

you notice her hand on top of the pillow, her bloody knuckles, two of which are swollen, and your chest hurts a little, like it always does when you see good people who have suffered more than they deserve. you’re quiet and gentle when you sit on the edge of the bed, and lexa shifts a little in bed, then opens her eyes lazily. when she sees that it’s you instead of clarke, she looks down kind of frantically to grab a blanket or something to cover her bare legs, and you smile. 

‘i’m a trauma surgeon, lexa,’ you say, ‘it’s okay.’

she sighs and you catch her smell clarke’s pillow discreetly before she sits up a little. 

‘clarke sent me to check up on you.’

lexa nods. ‘i am fine,’ she says, and her accent is heavier than normal, and she sounds tired.

you raise a brow. ‘want me to take a look at your hand?’

she looks down at it for a moment and then back up at you before nodding, and you say, ‘let me go get the first aid kid, i’ll be right back,’ and she nods.

you grab the kit from clarke’s bathroom, and then sit down again across from lexa, take her hand gently. she plays piano, and she has delicate hands, thin fingers and soft skin. her left is swollen and a little bloody and already bruising between the knuckles, and she winces when you start to dab disinfectant along the cuts.

you work in silence—it’s comfortable, though—until lexa says, ‘i apparently punched a wall in a barney’s dressing room.’

you look up at her and she looks embarrassed. ‘overpriced sneakers?’

she pauses for a moment and then laughs, and you smile. ‘i had a panic attack,’ she says. ‘things were too loud and too bright and i just—i forgot where i was or how to breathe.’

you nod, and she swallows.

‘it was—uncomfortable,’ she says.

you want to laugh, but you think that might be mean, so instead you say, ‘your body was very overwhelmed, that makes sense.’

‘i had them a lot when i was little,’ lexa says, and you don’t think anything in her hand is broken, so you start to bandage it gently with gauze. ‘not so much anymore, though.’

‘your brain grew up,’ you say, and she smiles with a little tilt of her head.

‘i’m in counseling, you know. and i have some individualized education stuff. if clarke hasn’t told you. i um—i work hard, to be able to be good for her. and friends.’

you don’t miss the fact that clarke isn’t exactly lexa’s _friend_ , but now’s not that time to bring that up.

‘i know you do,’ you say. ‘from what i’ve heard, you’re doing remarkably well. beating my daughter, even, in classes.’

lexa laughs. ‘she didn’t take AP physics, that’s all.’

‘i know,’ you say. ‘we’re very proud of clarke for being second only to you, don’t worry.’

lexa’s smile grows and she looks a little bashful, but also proud, and, no matter what happens, at least for right now, ‘you know,’ you say, ‘we’re very proud of you too. you’re good for clarke.’

lexa swallows and looks down at her bandaged hand and shrugs. ‘more than anything in the world, that is what i want to be, so.’

‘well then i’d say you’re quite successful.’

lexa smiles at you and then she nods. ‘thank you, dr. griffin,’ she says, ‘for—um, that, and also for helping with my hand.’

‘it’s abby,’ you say, and she smiles a little. ‘and of couse, lexa.’ you put the supplies back into the first aid kit neatly and then clarke and jake knock on the door, and clarke is proudly holding two jars of fireflies. 

‘don’t worry,’ she says, ‘they have holes in the tops and you can let them go later. we just—thought you might like them.’

lexa sits up straighter and her entire face lights up, a little in _awe_ , and you’re proud of your daughter and your husband and all of their brave, thoughtful love, and you’re lucky, you know, you’re _lucky_ that you get to have your life with them.

lexa stands and seemingly forgets that she doesn't have pants on, and she walks over to gently take a jar from clarke’s hand.

‘these are very lovely,’ she says. ‘thank you, clarke.’

‘yah,’ clarke says, ‘sure, lex,’ and her voice quiets a little and the entire top half of her body seems to blush, and jake winks at you and you have to fight not to laugh.

//

you eat a little of the dinner jake and abby had made you with clarke outside near their pool, because it’s pretty and dark and quiet and you like the fairy lights on the water. you’re quiet—clarke knows that talking is going to be hard for you right now, especially in english—but it’s comfortable and you knock your foot into hers a few times with a smile when you dangle them on the edge of the water.

eventually, you start to feel tired again, and you stand and take the jars of fireflies she’d caught you and let them go. it’s kind of magic, if you believed in that sort of thing. you don’t, but clarke comes close, and when they reflect in her eyes they’re almost the same color as her hair, as the stars, and your hands hurt, because she’s so good, she so _good_ , and you don’t really know how to, because you’ve never loved anyone like this before, but you do.

love her, very much.

you feel this weird combination of calm and jittery at the same time when she takes your good hand in hers, links your fingers like you prefer, and leads you wordlessly up to her bed. she turns her back toward you as she changes, and you pretend to stare at some of her art on the wall instead of her strong back and her soft, full hips and the dimples at the bottom of her spine. she doesn’t catch you, and you know some of the sketches on her wall—quick and sloppy and your favorites—are the outlines of a thin body, all sharp edges and slight curves, and you know they’re you, so you don’t feel so bad. you’re starting to think, very much, that she might love you back in the same way you think you’re growing to love her.

‘wanna come here?’ she asks, turning down her side of the bed. 

you nod and when you climb into her bed—with its soft white sheets with tiny flowers on them, and you scoot back and let clarke hold you, something relaxes down your entire spine, and her breath is warm on the back of your neck, and you feel unspeakably _safe_. 

she’s silent and you wait for her breathing to even out before you whisper, ‘ _dūset dāram_ ,’ the old translation you like in poetry and music much better than the everyday usage. you don’t know how exactly to say it in english, and you don’t think clarke is even awake, but then she sighs into your nape.

‘yeah, lex,’ she says, and you think she knows. ‘me too.’

//

when you wake up, lexa’s looking at you intently, even though her eyes are sleepy. they're the kind of green that reminds you of priceless pottery or something important enough to be preserved forever in museums, something to be curated and praised. 

‘you’re being weird,’ you whisper, and she smiles.

‘you’re beautiful,’ she says, and your tummy flips.

you take a deep breath and your heart is _pounding_ and she’s so close, and she looks down at your mouth, and she swallows and meets your gaze again.

‘can we?’ she asks, so quietly.

it stills something inside you and you smile and it’s the simplest thing in the world to kiss her. the easiest, most powerful thing, to feel her like that, and she brings her hand to tangle gently in your hair and you open your eyes for less than a second and hers are closed so intently, and her eyelashes are long and dark and beautiful and the sun is lilting through the window and it’s probably the loveliest moment of your life by a long shot. 

she backs up for the smallest time, grazes her nose against yours, and then you're pressing her back against the pillow a little, and lexa’s good at pretty much _everything_ , and this certainly isn't out of that scope.

you don’t know how long you kiss for—a few minutes, maybe, but time kind of stops meaning anything when lexa gently swipes her tongue against your bottom lip and then, when you open your mouth gladly, against your teeth, and when you do the same she whimpers a little—but then there’s knocking at your _wide open_ door and lexa laughs against your lips and your dad says, very nonchalantly, ‘your mom and i made brunch, if you’re hungry.’

you duck your head into lexa’s chest and she keeps laughing as she wraps her arms around you once and kisses the top of your head.

‘which you probably are,’ your dad says. ‘what you were just doing can take a lot out of ya.’

‘oh my _god_ ,’ you say, fling a pillow in the direction of the door, and your dad cackles and walks away with a wink, and lexa kisses you quickly, once more, before she stands—you pout, whatever—and puts on some shorts, ties her hair up quickly in a top knot, puts on her glasses.

‘your father,’ she says, ‘is not wrong, clarke. i’m practically famished.’

you roll your eyes. ‘you’re such an idiot.’

lexa shrugs, takes your hand in her good one after you put on boxers. ‘you’re my favorite thing in this world, clarke.’

she’s quiet and serious and something feels too big for your chest, so you nod. ‘you’re not so bad yourself,’ you tell her, and her eyes crinkle around the edges when she smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> hmu at possibilistfanfiction on tumblr, eliza is unicyclehippo & shes nicer


End file.
